


Eros

by ClementineStarling



Series: (Beyond the) Pleasure Principle [2]
Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub, F/M, Femdom, M/M, Masturbation, foot kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 12:04:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10360053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: Set after 2x10 in Berlin: John can't sleep and remembers the events of VA Day (1x06)





	

**Author's Note:**

> If this doesn't stop soon, I'll have to ask you to give me your epithet, dear Belial, because I'm clearly more industrious to vice; on the other hand: this is all your fault!! :P
> 
>  **Content note:**  
>  John is a bastard. Surprise. This is pretty much exactly as gloomy and problematic as you would expect; but compared to the first part of this little series, it's probably pretty tame, almost fluffy. There are some references to Thomas' situation, to eugenics and to pregnancy/this whole Nazi mother cult that could maybe be squicky. Apart from that, idk. Everything about this show is squicky? I guess that's the whole fun.

It's surprisingly comforting to have something to hold on to, even if it's only a drink. He swirls the liquid, watches it cling to the walls of the glass, thick and oily. It will take the edge off a bit, soften the feeling of apprehension, but he can't bring himself to take the first sip. It may not be wise, it could be crucial he remains sharp and alert. Somewhere behind the scenes the well-oiled machinery of SD and Gestapo has been set into motion and he must be prepared for nasty surprises. Things are out of his hands now, he is not involved in the proceedings but he knows enough about standard procedure to imagine what is happening: there will be knocks on doors in the dead of night while men kiss their families good-bye and get their Walther P38s, retrieve their cyanide capsules or tie themselves a noose. A traitor is always prepared for this moment. He has to be. Better to have a clean quick death than fall into the hands of the SS.

John has little sympathy for the conspirators. Most of them will get what they deserve – one way or another. And yet he is worried about being at the epicentre of upheaval. Until the power structures have settled again, it's still possible to find himself in the firing line. It's so easy to get under the wheels in times like these.

The crystal weighs heavy in his hand. Everything weighs heavy now. John isn't a man to hesitate in the face of duty, he knows the burden of responsibility, knows it only too well perhaps, and it's never made him falter. But this time he feels he might be in over his head. He is a soldier, not a politician. Back home in New York he wouldn't have worried, but Germany is uncharted territory for him. He's neither familiar with the local players, their plots and intrigues and animosities, nor does he have a network of informants. All he has are his wits and there's a chance that won't be enough to survive here. Berlin is a snake pit, the party a beast of many heads. You cut one off and at least two new ones will grow in its place. 

It's hard to anticipate how things will play out but tomorrow the Reich will wake to a different leadership, and perhaps to a new world. They don't know it yet. The night lies velvet-heavy over Germania, and even though the city lights are still glittering like a treasure hoard of looted gems and dental gold, outshining the stars that twinkle cold and far above, most people are asleep at this ungodly hour. 

John sets down the glass. He should go get some rest too but it doesn't help they dropped him off at Heusmann's house of all places, as though the Reichminister's home was particularly suited as accommodation for the man who brought him down. There's a certain irony in the fact that John is now sitting in the same stifling drawing room in which he had his conversation with Joe earlier. 

It's late. The search of the residence and the ransacking of Heusmann's study by men of the Gestapo – accompanied by the housekeeper's frantic hand wringing and desperate inquiries about her employer's fate (“And the boy, what about the boy? Surely he's not involved?!”) – was completed hours ago and thankfully the upset Frau Silvia has retired to her room. John himself poured her a schnapps to soothe the nerves and sent her to bed. 

He still can't shake off the memory of her clutching his arm, begging for mercy, for Joseph at least, she said when he let on that Heusmann was beyond redemption. “Er ist so ein guter Junge.” 

He could hardly tell her what he thinks of that judgement of character, couldn't he? Nor that he is determined to take him back with him to the US if they let him. He's convinced that they won't deny him this favour. Joe hasn't been in Berlin long enough to have become an asset to Heusmann's plans, he hasn't yet been established as the Nazi prince Heusmann apparently wanted him to be, and John hopes the people in charge will be content with Joe simply disappearing. To them it makes little difference whether he disappears into a grave in Germany or a prison cell in New York as long as he's gone from the political stage.

But then John has no idea how far the powerful are willing to go to keep their position safe and how much of a cleansing they will deem necessary after the exposure of the conspiracy. 

It would be a terrible waste to see Joe hanged though. John didn't lie when he said that, in some ways, he'd come to regard him as a son. It wasn't the whole truth either. He can think of quite a few ways in which this claim couldn't be further from the truth. John wouldn't grab Thomas by the neck and force his cock down his throat. He wouldn't hold his head in an iron grip so he had no choice but to take it, spluttering, retching gasping for air. Of course he wouldn't. But he's had Joe like that and he will have him again, unless some high-ranking party member feels like making an example of him. 

How unfair life can be sometimes, John muses, giving Heusmann a genetically perfect son when he cared so little about him that he never came looking for him, while John's own, whom he loves so dearly, will have to be sent away into hiding, because he is considered unworthy to live. John has tried not to dwell on Thomas' future since he left New York or think about the accusations Helen hurled at him, but she was right of course, it's his fault. It's all his fault. He carries the defect in his blood and he should have known it.

He was foolish in his hope the disease would have passed him by, irresponsible, too selfish to deny himself the happiness of family life. You could argue that before '47, in the US, it would have been an acceptable risk. But after the Reich had won the war, they (he!) should have reconsidered and forgone having more children. But they didn't and now here he is and dread's scraping through his veins like ground glass – it's far worse than the fear of retribution for his interference with Heusmann's plot or the concerns about Joe's fate. 

He should call Helen. It's not that late in New York yet and she'll probably be worried sick.

But he can't. 

He already picked up the receiver, put the hand on the telephone, but his fingers refused to start dialing his home number. He just couldn't do it. They've probably tapped the line, he told himself, and that he couldn't risk them overhearing anything suspicious. Despite all his faith in Helen's loyalty, she is so beside herself at the moment, he can't trust her to be careful enough, can he? But, and that's a question weighing much heavier, even if no one was listening in, what would he say to her? What could he possibly say?

Maybe he needs that drink after all, he thinks, and a cigarette to go with it. Allow himself to unwind for a bit, he's no use in the state he's in. He may be sober but his mind is far from being clear.

The house is quiet as John sets out to find the bedroom that's been prepared for him. The servants, if there remain any after the raid, are fast asleep and the guards, who must have been positioned somewhere, seem to standing watch outside, which leaves John free to explore the rooms on the first floor unperturbed. 

It's easy to tell which one is Joe's. It does smell a little like him. His after shave perhaps. There's a suit laid out for him over a chair, a few souvenirs on the dressing table, postcards, a pen, a party badge, cuff links.

John sits down on the edge of the bed, pours himself another glass and puts the bottle he's brought along with him on the night stand. There is an ashtray with a couple of cigarette butts, one of them with lipstick on the filter. So Joe had a girl over. John can't suppress a smile at the thought. It was to be expected that a pretty boy like Joe, not just Lebensborn but also a Reichsminister's son, would be in high demand with the female population of Berlin. 

He folds back the blanket and runs his hand over the sheets, smoothing out the crinkles. A stain confirms his suspicion.

It doesn't come as a surprise. Joe is easy like that. Not a womaniser, not the kind of man John knows too well from his time in the field, who chases after every skirt and persuades every woman to let him into their panties. Joe doesn't have to do that, or perhaps his secret is that he doesn't do it. He's just genuinely nice and chivalrous. He looks at women with his wide blue eyes full of adoration and smiles at them with his lush mouth that seems to be made for kissing and simply waits to be seduced. 

John wonders if that's what went down with Juliana Crain. If between lemonade and early morning car rides she leaned over and pressed her lips to his to taste him, and he gave in, eagerly, allowing her to slip her hands under his T-shirt, returning her kisses, breathless and open mouthed. John can't imagine Juliana being quite so forward, she's struck him as a shy, reserved person, certainly loving and kind, but not sexually aggressive. Perhaps that's why Joe claims they didn't sleep with each other – because they really didn't.

Boys like Joe need to be told what to do.  
And girls like Juliana are unlikely to know how wield that kind of power.

John remembers only too well how Joe reacted to Helen when he came over for the VA Day celebration. It didn't even appear to be a conscious decision but he always fell back on calling her Ma'am, and certainly not because she reminded him of his mother. He quickly tried to make up for it every time by stuttering an apology, and Helen just smiled a knowing, cherry-red smile at him, casually touched his hand or his arm and enjoyed how he blushed at the intimacy of it. 

“You do like him,” John remarked while she put the dishes in the sink after dinner. 

Helen looked out of the window to where Joe sat perched on a garden chair in the back yard, playing with one of Thomas' baseballs. “He's a sweet boy,” she said casually, turning on the tap. The detergent started foaming under the jet of water.

John had suggested a thousand times to hire a maid, not unusual for a woman in her position, he was after all the highest ranking SS-officer in America, and she had always refused, but he couldn't help bringing it up again, prompting the usual response. 

“It's my house to keep in order,” she said. “We have to lead by example. What kind of a wife and mother would I be if I couldn't even run a household of five?”

John knew her well enough to perceive the reproach in the number, the shadow of an accusation. Helen had always wanted to have more than three children. Four at least, to qualify for the bronze Mother's Cross. “We owe it to the Reich,” she used to say. 

But as the years had passed and the eugenics laws had been implemented in the Greater Reich, the fear had begun nagging in the back of John's mind. 

“Not now,” he'd told her, “later perhaps,” and she accepted it, like any good wife must. It didn't prevent her from demanding his attention though, the performance of his conjugal obligations. She kept a calendar on her dressing table, not just for her own sake but also so he'd be informed about her expectations: His mouth and fingers during her fertile days, his cock in the times she was unlikely to conceive. And John couldn't be accused of negligence when it came to the fulfilment of his duties.

With time her menstrual cycle had become as familiar to him as his own schedule, even more so perhaps. In that moment at the sink, when he stepped behind her, putting her hands on her hips, his long fingers spanning her lovely curves possessively, he was very acutely aware of the fact they would be safe that night, and he would be allowed inside her, into that glorious, wet, tight heat of her body. No matter the distractions he sought elsewhere, it would always be her, he wanted most, and she knew it. She wiggled her bottom against him playfully and he had to bite back a groan.

“Don't tease me, Helen,” he growled against her ear but she only laughed and turned around to kiss him full on the lips. 

“I'm going to tease you all I like, John, you should know that,” she said, mischief twinkling in her eye. Her voice had dropped to that low purr he loved so much. It always made him feel warm and weak and wanting at the same time. How on earth could he not play along? 

“Of course, Ma'am,” he replied and she gave him a satisfied smile before returning her attention to the dishes.

“So about your boy–” she said.

Later that day, after the children had been sent to bed and Rudy had been taken away, when they had the living room to themselves she asked Joe to fix them one last drink, while John sat down on the sofa, suddenly bone-tired. He loosened his tie as he watched Helen spinning her web.

He'd always wondered where Helen was drawing her energy from. Even now, after a long and exhausting day, she seemed so lively as she stepped up to Joe, closer than appropriate, taking the glass he offered her from his hand and raising it to her still meticulously red lips. 

Joe swallowed in sympathy when she took her sip, then without thinking his fingers closed around the glass as she handed it back to him. He was still, very still. Immobilised by apprehension. Helen reached out, running her small, perfectly manicured hands over his chest, taking hold of his tie. John could hear the boy gasp in surprise, see his eyes flick towards him, unsure how to react. He was lovely as ever in his confusion, vulnerable like prey. Helen waited a moment for John's reassuring nod to fully register, then tugged at the tie to make Joe bow his head so she could reach his lips.

Joe froze when he realised she was actually going to kiss him, and John didn't blame him. Of course he wouldn't assume John to allow his wife to put her tongue into his filthy little mouth; Joe wasn't used to such expressions of affection. He didn't deserve them, as John never tired to tell him, enjoying the half hurt, half excited look on Joe's face, the pleading that followed, the desperate attempts to prove him wrong and earn a reward.

Now Helen gave him this kiss freely, without him having to bargain or beg, and every line in Joe's body bore witness to his incredulity. It was obvious he thought this was too good to be true and that he was waiting for a catch. For John's hand in his neck for example, pulling him away from his wife; for an angry command; for a slap from Helen for some unintentional blunder. But when nothing of the sort happened, he relaxed, lost himself in the kiss, lost himself so much that, when Helen finally broke away from him, he was reluctant to let go, chasing after her with closed eyes and a dreamy expression.

“I do see why you're so fond of him, John,” Helen said. She still held Joe's tie as if it were a leash. “He makes such a pretty toy. And he's so responsive.” She brushed his lips over his mouth again and Joe opened up, obediently, hungrily. He practically begged to be ravished.

She led him to a nearby armchair, sinking down gracefully into it, dragging him down with her so he came to kneel before her, the colour high on his cheeks. 

“Take off your shirt, boy,” she said, her tone gentle, and again Joe turned his head involuntarily towards John, asking for permission. 

John's own voice was husky when he answered. “Do as you're told, Joe.”

For all his rebellious inclinations Joe was rather keen on following orders. John could see how he relished Helen's attention, how eager he was to please her. His fingers trembled a little when he unbuttoned his shirt. He loosened the knot of his tie just enough to slip the shirt out from under it, so he could keep the tie around his neck (how very considerate of him), then he pulled the undershirt over his head. 

Joe was pretty, you had to give him that, a well-toned torso, muscular arms, smooth, lightly tanned skin, and Helen had always appreciated beauty. She clicked her tongue with satisfaction as she let her eyes wander over his body. 

“Take off my shoe,” she said, lifting her leg, and Joe looked at her as if she'd given him a present. He took her foot into his hands with apparent reverence and tenderly slipped off her shoe, then bowed a little further to press a kiss to her ankle, her instep, rub his cheek against the sole. Helen drew in an audible breath and John could tell how much she liked what Joe was doing.

“May I take off your stocking too, Ma'am,” he asked without glancing up at her. 

Helen's eyes were burning when she looked at John, while Joe carefully unclasped the garters and rolled down her nylon stockings, the sole of her foot braced against his naked chest. Once he was done he lifted her foot to his lips again to brush them over the bare skin, then suck her toes into his mouth, one by one, with mounting enthusiasm. 

John could never help the faint sting of jealousy when he saw his wife being touched by another man. It must be an instinctive reaction. Usually he was rather good at keeping his impulses under control but in some cases he found himself unable to suppress them entirely. Now a surge of possessiveness made him keenly aware of how much he wanted her, how much he loved her. Desire was one thing, often too twisted, unsavoury even, to indulge in at home, but what he felt for Helen had always been more than just animal urges. However far he strayed he would always return to her. She did own him, body and soul.

John watched how she allowed Joe to kiss her calves, the soft skin of her inner thighs. How she gathered her skirts to let him go further upwards, how she raised her hips so he could remove her lace panties. John could almost smell her arousal, taste it on his tongue, sweet and slick, and his body was tense with anticipation, his cock pushing against the fabric of his trousers, impatient for attention.

Helen's head fell backwards, her body stretched and arced every time Joe lapped at her, just a tiny bit, but enough to notice, enough to conclude Joe was as accomplished at cunnilingus as he was at sucking a cock. He had a talented little mouth and a clever tongue, but first and foremost he loved to serve someone like this and he wasn't shy about showing it. After a while Helen had to remind him, he would wake the children, if he kept being so loud but John could tell she enjoyed his moans.

“You're spoiling him,” John said when she allowed Joe to lick her clean after the second time he made her come, but Helen seemed unconcerned. She reached out to stroke Joe's hair affectionately as he was kneeling between her legs, nuzzling her thigh. He looked lovely, flushed and dishevelled and absolutely desperate.

“I thought you would appreciate the chance to make a mess of me all over again, John” she said with an amused curl of her cherry lips. 

Joe stared up at her, wide-eyed, as if she was a Goddess. He was leaning further into her touch, clearly afraid that since she had what she wanted, she'd just leave him like this, drunk on her, on Riesling and schnapps and his own arousal. It wouldn't be the first time for him to be dismissed after having fulfilled his task. John had developed somewhat of a habit of being unpredictable about these things.

But Helen wasn't as cruel. “To your feet, boy,” she said, and: “Off with your pants, I want to see all of you.”

Joe ended up completely naked but for his tie which he kept on – for obvious reasons; but this time Helen's hand found something better to hold on to, and poor Joe gasped. 

“Your toy has a pretty little cock,” she said while wrapping her fingers tighter around it and John noticed how Joe's knees nearly buckled.

“Yes, he does,” he agreed, watching mesmerised how Helen's hand moved up and down Joe's cock. He knew she was good at this, but even if he hadn't known, he could have see it in Joe's face. It was screwed up in concentration. Clearly he understood the opportunity he'd been given here, this slim chance of being allowed to come if only he was fast enough, focussed enough. He was dripping over Helen's hand in his excitement, the muscles in his thigh trembling.

“Joe, did you suck my husband's cock today on the way to the airport?” she asked without interrupting the movement of her hand.

His gaze darted to John again, wide-eyed like a deer in headlights. 

“Tell her, Joe,” John said.

Joe bit his lip and nodded bashfully.

“You will give me a proper answer when I ask you a question.” There was a severity in Helen's tone that did not only affect Joe, it also made John's skin prickle.

To his defence Joe looked all the more appealing when he was told how wanting his behaviour had been.

“Yes, Ma'am,” he said, casting down his eyes. To make sure he did what he was expected to he added: “I did suck your husband's cock today.”

“And did you like it?”

Again this short glance towards John. “Yes, Ma'am,” he said then, and added: “Very much.”

Helen seemed pleased to hear it. “Good boy,” she said. “Now, go and tend to my husband, I want you to unbutton him for me. But first,” she let go of him so abruptly he almost lost his footing, showing him her hand, “take care of this mess.”

John watched with bated breath how Joe bowed over Helen's hand and reverently licked the stains of precum from her fingers. 

“Thank you, Ma'am,” he said before he walked over to where John was sitting, and John felt his heart swell with an odd sense of pride. He had taught him well.

Joe was completely dishevelled by now. His lips were swollen, his face smeared with Helen's fluids, but it was without doubt by far the loveliest John had ever seen him, and he'd seen Joe in quite a few states of disarray. 

Joe dropped to his knees with an elegance derived from a lot of practise. 

“May I, sir?” he asked before he leaned in to help John with his clothes. “Please?”

John nodded. “Not the shirt,” he said though when Joe raised his hands to unbutton it. He knew what Helen had in mind, and he didn't think it appropriate to be completely undressed outside their bedroom, especially with Joe present. Instead he directed Joe's hands towards his trousers.

It wasn't the first time Joe unzipped him. On the contrary, they had a well established routine by now. Usually Joe knew very well what was expected of him, how to retrieve John's cock from his trousers, how to touch him, when he was allowed to take it into his mouth, but then usually he wasn't preparing John to be with someone else. Usually John also didn't bother with pulling down his trousers, but this was different, he wanted to feel Helen's naked skin against his when she rode him.

Joe used the chance to run his hands over John's bare thighs, something he'd never been allowed before, then he lowered his head to award his cock the attention it deserved. John was almost entirely hard by now but Helen would appreciate him being slick and fully erect for her, and Joe did his best to be efficient about it, although he couldn't resist getting a proper taste of John first. The boy was such a slut, it was an absolute delight. How proud his father would be, if he knew.

“That's enough,” he said, quite too early in Joe's opinion, judging from his expression, though he didn't dare protest but sat back on his heels like a good boy and waited for further instructions.

Outside the VA Day fireworks had finally stopped, and apart from the ticking of the clock the living room was completely silent. Tension hung heavy between them. John's gaze wandered over to Helen, who had used the time to unbutton her dress and slip out of her petticoat. Now all she wore was a lacy bra and a sheer chemise that reached just down to the tops of her thighs, barely covering the delicious strawberry curls between her legs. 

John would have preferred to have her completely naked but he understood the moment didn't allow it. He was a lucky man nonetheless; she also could have decided to let the boy take care of him and simply go to bed.

Joe seemed to share the sentiment, he gazed longingly at her when she strode past him without sparing him as much as a glance. She only had eyes for John.

For a moment she stood over him, reaching out to stroke his cheekbone, gently. John knew what the gesture meant, what she would say if Joe wasn't here, and it was enough to know. He didn't have to hear it. But after the events of the day he could do with the reassurance. The business with Rudy had been more than unpleasant. After all Rudolph Wegener used to be a friend. 

Maybe she was reading his mind because she buried her hand in his hair and pulled and for a second the sharp pain yanked him back to the here and now. 

She clambered over his lap and sank down on him, slowly, deliberately teasing him. His hand rose to her hips of their own accord, not so much to support her but because he couldn't help touching her. She felt so good, so tight, clenching around him as she moved, his cock trapped in the heat of her body. He was breathless, powerless, at her mercy, unable to do anything but push into her, again and again.

That's what John thinks of, sitting on Joe's bed, in his Berlin room, between those indecently red walls. That's what he thinks of while stroking his cock in a slow, lazy rhythm. He imagines his hand to be Helen's cunt, Joe's throat, imagines the wet clutch of muscles, swallowing him up. He imagines rubbing his thumb over Helen's clit, the slickness of her, or the way Joe will rut against his leg every time he lets him, the small, desperate noises he makes, Helen's gasps and moans of pleasure. 

John runs his thumb through the clear fluid gathering on the tip of his cock. He bites his lip to stifle a groan.

On that VA Day night when at last he wasn't able to hold on any longer – trying to resist Helen's power over him has always been futile – she kissed the sounds from his lips, licked them straight from his mouth while he struggled beneath her, unravelled, out of control, a mere animal in his climax.

He remembers how she positively glowed with satisfaction after, gleaming eyes and apples in her cheeks, and how thankful Joe had licked her clean one last time, before they allowed him to come, on all fours before them, Helen's foot on the end of his tie to force him into a crouching position, her hand stroking his hair while muttering praise and endearments as the poor boy was working his cock, frantically, panting.

He comes to the mental image in the bleak here and now of Berlin, his heart heavy with longing for simpler times, for his wife, for the comfort of her touch.

He wipes his sticky hand on the sheets before he gets off the bed, straightens his clothes and smooths out the covers. He can't sleep here, even if it's tempting. He can't risk arousing suspicion about the nature of his relationship with Joe. As far as Joe is concerned everyone has believe that John's interest in him originates in the benevolence of a mentor or the concern of a superior for his subordinate not in this kind of affection. There are situations when the party chooses to turn a blind eye, but this is none of them, John harbours no illusions about it. 

It's convenient that Joe seems to have a German girlfriend, hopefully every bit as sweet and pretty and Aryan as himself, so it will distract from his suddenly flawed parentage, and John's standing regarding his predilections should be beyond doubt. There is nothing to worry about, not in this matter. Not yet. Everything is good as long as no one finds out about Thomas.

Eventually all of his thoughts return to his son. Whatever reprieve John gained by indulging in sexual fantasies, it lasts no longer than his pleasure. When he reaches the guest bedroom that's been prepared for him, he's back to racking his brain. He pours himself another glass, lights another cigarette.

Surely Thomas is old enough to have sexual dreams of his own, he thinks. Perhaps he has already kissed a girl behind the gym, or even fumbled in dark corners. He'd be the right age for first experiences. It breaks John's heart to deny him his youth but he sees no other way. He must send him away, somewhere where no one cares about eugenics. Maybe he could hire someone as a companion. 

Unbidden the image of Juliana Crain pops up in his mind. Indeed, Juliana would be perfect. She seems to be kind and to genuinely care about his boy. He thinks Thomas fancies her a bit, that might help convince him, it's for the best. And she would be out of the way too. 

It's a selfish thought, terrible really, under the circumstances, but he can't help it. With Juliana gone, he would have Joe to himself again.

But what about Helen?

Helen is strong. Stronger than him in many, many ways, but to take her son away could destroy her. He's already felt her crumbling under the pressure. Maybe it's only a matter of time before she breaks. She would need something to distract her. A reason to pull herself together. 

Maybe it's finally time for her to have another child, John thinks while he takes a sip from his drink. It can't be a child by him, of course. But then, don't they already have the perfect father at hand? Who could be better suited than someone with a Lebensborn pedigree.

John finishes his drink with one long gulp and stubs out his cigarette. He still feels vaguely sick but the day's events are at last taking their toll. He's slumping down on the covers without bothering to get out of his clothes (at least he's pulled off the boots) and only a couple of moments later he is fast asleep while far above Berlin in the deep endless blackness of space dead stars are glittering, sharp and cruel like teeth.

~


End file.
